Bullseye

Just after 3am, he pulls his pickup
into the gravel lot of the old lockhouse.
It is a cold night, full of talk of superstition,
black cats and a full moon beginning to sink
full-bellied, down into the river.
A werewolf moon, I say.
His grin is a flash of primal fire in the dark.
Somewhere deep inside me,
something hungry wakens
and shifts, uncurls.
We begin to discuss the impossibility
of silver bullets, how they are too light
to be shot accurately at much of anything.
His fingertips brush my knee
as he reaches across to switch off the radio.
I grab his hand, press it to the slope
of my chest where my heart beats
a wild tattoo against his palm.
Touch me again, I whisper.
Surprised, he was sure he’d need
better ammunition.